


Fear and Resolutions

by cegodfre, Lilith Sedai (orphan_account)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cegodfre/pseuds/cegodfre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Lilith%20Sedai
Summary: Christine re-evaluates her relationships with the men in her life and must decide who is the captor and who is the protector. R. Angst, romance, first-time.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	Fear and Resolutions

**Author's Note:**

> Fear and Resolutions  
> by Cara Liane (Lilith Sedai circa 1990) (lilith_sedai@hotmail.com)
> 
> Disclaimer: Contains references to and mild spoilers for Susan Kay's "Phantom."

The ornate carven door of Raoul de Chagny's Paris home slammed, and the slight figure of Madame de Chagny stamped down the steps into the street, not caring where she went. It was quite late, and at first, she did not notice the many curious eyes which followed her...

Christine pulled the hood of her cloak lower over her face, feeling the eyes of men on her. This was a fear which could never have been caused by Erik... his presence frightened her, yes, and his temper could rouse terror in her soul, but the eyes of these rough men sent a chill deeper into her heart than Erik had ever done, a dagger of piercing dread. As a man, Erik could not experience the impotent terror of a woman alone and surrounded by many hating, lustful men... she sensed something terrible was about to happen.

She hadn't known what she was doing, coming out so late at night and venturing into the neighborhoods where the ragged men lingered, with their eyes cold and hot at the same time, fingering knives...

One rough, corpulent man stepped to block her path, and her heart rose into her throat. Desperately she attempted to sidestep him. There was no turning back, others followed behind. If only she could reach the main street--

The man snatched her arm as she slipped around his side, and spun her to face him. Her cowl fell back, revealing her face.

The man leered at her. "Going somewhere, girl?"

Christine tried to freeze him with her eyes, and failed. She jerked her arm away but was caught from behind and immobilized. She struggled to scream, but could not utter a sound.

"I think you're coming with us now," the fat man told her, his eyes lecherous. "A pretty little songbird from the Opera," he mused, his thick lips twisting into an ugly grin. "I bet I can make you hit some of those high notes, girl--"

He stopped in mid-sentence, his face contorting, his hands clawing at his throat. He choked once, and jerked backward off his feet. He fell, not moving.

"Let her go." The icy sweet voice could only belong to Erik, unexpected but never more welcome to her than now. He stepped forward, a menacing, commanding presence in towering shadow, his features invisible in the darkness.

"There's only one," the man holding her laughed. "We can take him."

"But what happened to Pierre--" a nervous voice spoke.

"Pierre is a fat fool. Excited himself into a heart attack, no doubt," her captor shook her once, taunting Erik. "You'd better go, if you value your miserable hide, Monsieur!"

Erik continued his relentless stalking advance. He gestured idly with one hand, and Christine saw a flare of light as fire ignited behind her field of vision, and she heard the screams of a man caught by Erik's mysterious flames, and many sets of running footsteps receding down an alley.

She felt her captor's hold shift, tighten. She became a shield to the man, and his arm whipped around her throat, cutting off her breath. Her eyes pleaded silently for Erik to save her.

He saw the arm of the ragged man encircling the throat of his love, and the rage which rose in him knew no bounds. If he, who loved Christine, could not touch her, how much less did this ruffian have the right to do so?

"Let her go," he repeated, his voice grim. "Or I shall kill you where you stand."

"Come a step closer and I'll break her neck," the unnamed man retorted. Christine could smell the sour wine on his breath, felt him pull her back. Her feet stumbled clumsily, delaying him. "Come on, you whore," he spat, giving her a cruel jerk.

Erik gestured and the light increased. The man swore and halted, his avenue of escape cut off by leaping flame. Now the white mask was visible beneath Erik's black fedora, and he suddenly jerked it away, revealing his demonic, distorted features. His eyes reflected the heat of the licking flames, shining with a fury that frightened Christine.

Her captor twitched involuntarily. "Demon!" he whispered, his voice quivering with fright. His left hand sketched a ward against the evil eye. She felt his grasp loosen, and she struggled against him, sinking her teeth into his arm. He shouted and cuffed her mightily, throwing her to the ground. He leaped to be free of the ring of Erik's fire, but the Punjab lasso caught him in mid-air and he fell limp on the ground.

The flames flickered low and vanished. Erik stepped forward, detaching the lasso with a casual flick of his wrist. Christine struggled to her feet before he could move close enough to extend his hand and help her rise.

She stood before him, shaking as the adrenaline faded from her, leaving her legs weak. He looked into her face, his jaw set and his eyes sad.

"You should be more careful," he replaced the mask, hiding his ruined face.

Christine didn't answer him. She tried to calm her shattered nerves by smoothing her dress, which was dirty from her fall. "You killed them," she accused him, her eyes on the ground, her voice shaky.

They were not the words he had hoped to hear. "Would you have preferred for them to rape you?" he answered her coldly. "Would you prefer that they survived to rape some other child foolish enough to walk into their trap at night? Some poor girl who has no one to protect her?"

Christine turned from him. His words were true, but she could not ignore the cool, efficient murders she had just witnessed. Before her eyes there flamed the corpse of one of the attackers, a boy actually, perhaps in his mid teens. Tears rose into her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks.

"Go," she whispered to Erik.

"No," he answered her, his voice still cold. "There could easily be more like these who would attack you, and I will not leave you vulnerable to them." He stepped forward, his eyes steady with determination. "I will escort you, since your husband does not care enough for you to do so himself."

Christine did not hear his words, her mind presenting her with the sudden vivid memory of the ruffian's scratchy, bearded cheek against hers, the foul smell of his breath, the unclean feel of his arm on her throat... she felt herself growing dizzy, and the world spun before her eyes.

She fell backward into Erik's arms, senseless.

He sighed and lifted her, arranging her in his arms. She had left her house in such a hurry, slamming the door behind her... there was either an urgent errand, or there had been an argument. He suspected the latter.

Erik often lingered outside the opulent home of Raoul de Chagny, tormenting himself with occasional glimpses of Christine. Tonight it had been fortunate that he did so. Had she really argued with Raoul? Why else would she leave the house at this hour? Where had she planned to go?

It would be a long, painful task to carry her across Paris to the Opera, his only sanctuary. Even though he was more than willing to take her there, she would probably not appreciate it if he took that liberty.

Sighing, Erik carried Christine back to Raoul's house. He rang the bell and lingered, against his better judgment. A small, frightened housemaid opened the door, giving a soft shriek when she spied her mistress lying in the arms of such a menacing, black- cloaked figure.

The maid's cry summoned Raoul. The Vicomte's mouth tightened defensively at the sight of Erik.

"Christine!" He quickly snatched away Erik's precious burden, glaring at his old rival. "What on earth have you done to her, Monsieur?"

"You should take better care of your wife," Erik commanded him. "How could you let her go out alone at such an hour? She could have been raped or killed." His eyes narrowed. "If I had not seen and followed her, Monsieur, she would have returned to you in a far worse condition, if she returned at all."

Raoul swallowed nervously. He had no answer to that, other than a muddle of contradictory emotion: gratitude that Christine had been rescued, shame that she had run out, and dismay at the knowledge that Erik had been nearby to see Christine emerge... the implications of his presence were disturbing, to say the least.

Christine moaned softly, and Raoul forgot Erik, carrying her into the drawing room and placing her on the couch. Erik followed, indecisive but motivated by the desire to see her eyes again. Watching her from afar was so unsatisfying...

She opened her eyes, gazing up at Raoul with confusion, glancing past him to Erik. Her expression revealed surprise. Erik had brought her back here? An odd disappointment weighed on her.

Raoul picked up her hand and pressed a fervent kiss to her fingers. "Thank God you're all right, Christine."

The sight of this tender reunion pained Erik, and he glided from the room soundlessly. Raoul watched him go with relief.

"Don't," Christine snatched her hand from Raoul fretfully. She tried to rise, still a little disoriented from her short unconsciousness.

"Lie still," Raoul commanded her, pressing her shoulders back to the couch.

"No!" Christine snapped at him again, louder. "Let go."

In the entry hall, Erik halted as if he were frozen. He had returned Christine to her husband, but the peevish tone in her voice as she addressed Raoul told him that he had been mistaken.

Christine's little maid edged around him, her brown eyes terrified. He reached out and easily caught her wrist. "They have been fighting," he stated, and the look in her eyes confirmed his guess. "Do they fight often?"

His soft voice was as stern as it was beautiful, and it compelled the girl to nod, affirmative, before he allowed her to jerk her wrist from his hand and flee.

Erik turned and stood by the door of the drawing room, where he could listen without being seen.

"Christine," Raoul was saying in a tight whisper. "I forbid you to get up."

"You can't just let him leave..." Christine whispered back furiously. "Erik!" she called. "Don't go, please."

"Damn it, Christine!" Raoul hissed. His heavy footsteps pursued Christine's light ones across the floor. Quickly Erik sprang to the door, turned the knob, and opened it. He took a step outside just as Christine entered the hall. No need for her to know that he had been listening.

"Please don't leave yet," she murmured softly.

Erik turned to face her impassively. Raoul stood behind her, his grim face warning his enemy to leave. The little maid had appeared again, and she cowered further back in the hall, her round eyes drinking in the scene before them. What rumors there would be in the servants' hall the next morning, Erik thought wryly.

"Why not?" he heard himself say.

Christine swallowed nervously. "You saved me."

Erik shrugged. "That service is no longer required of me," he inclined his head toward Raoul. "It is the responsibility of another now."

"Go, Monsieur," Raoul mustered his voice. "I will take care that it does not happen again."

"Be silent!" Christine whirled on Raoul, her eyes flashing. "For once in your life, won't you let me finish what I want to say? Why do you think I--" she halted in mid-sentence. "Miranda, go to your room," she ordered the shivering Spanish maid, not having to look back to know the girl was there.

"Yes, Madame," the girl quavered, and disappeared.

"Won't you even offer him a glass of brandy? He saved me from a band of rapists, Raoul!" Christine faced her husband, her hands on her hips. "You know why I left here tonight. Don't make it worse."

Raoul ignored Erik's presence, his face flushing red with anger. "Christine, the man is stalking you. Can't you see that? Even now you aren't safe from him--"

"How dare you insult him like this!" Christine shrilled, furious. "You should be grateful to him! Have you forgotten that he let you live and he let me go with you? Tonight he rescued me from vandals. He even brought me back here to your home! How can you be so rude?"

"Christine, listen to reason!" Raoul's anger built. "The man is a murderer. He kidnapped you. He's stalking you even to this day--"

Erik drifted further beyond the open door. This argument pained him nearly as much as a tender scene would have done. He did not care to witness it any longer, but she had asked him to stay. She even defended him to her husband! Carefully choosing his words, he addressed her.

"Would you prefer for me to escort you elsewhere, Christine?" The soft sentence fell into the room like a bomb waiting to go off.

Raoul stepped forward with a furious exclamation, pushing Christine behind him. "I'll thank you to use proper respect when addressing my wife!" He took the door, preparing to slam it in his rival's face.

Erik stared at him derisively, not dignifying the remark with an answer.

Christine shouldered past Raoul, her body blocking the closing door, which buffeted her roughly. "Yes, thank you!" She answered him shortly. She leaned aside and snatched a cloak from the rack which stood next to the entry.

"Christine!" Raoul snapped, furious. "Don't you go with him!"

"Good night!" she returned, and slammed the door. She rushed down the steps two at a time, not waiting for Erik. He caught up with her easily, as Raoul flung the door open once more.

"Christine, come back here at once!" Raoul shouted, for once disregarding the neighbors.

"No!" She stalked down the street, in as fine a display of temper as Erik had ever witnessed from her. He inclined his head mockingly at Raoul, and followed her.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked her several blocks later. There was no use in wandering aimlessly through the ill-lit streets. He might have to fight off cutthroats again, a sight which would displease her.

Christine stared at him with slight surprise, as if she had forgotten he was at her side, matching her furious pace easily. His black cloak drifted behind him gracefully in the wind of their passage.

She lifted her chin. "To a hotel," she spoke with determination.

Erik's heart sank. He had hoped she would volunteer to come back with him to the Opera.

"Your husband will worry," he remarked, to measure her reaction.

She huffed impatiently. "Let him."

Erik nodded with approval. This was Christine as he had always known she could be: independent, decisive, willing to stand up for herself. He wondered what had driven her to it. His own influence, surely, had left some mark on her: perhaps he had enabled her to see the truth inherent in the stifling institution of marriage to gentry. She was expected to bow to her husband's every whim, to be a pretty, submissive doll with no will of her own. Christine could be much more than that, Erik knew. He fell back slightly, his sharp eyes surverying her confident, proud manner.

This beautiful child had grown to a woman in his shadow, and somehow he had failed to notice. Somewhere she had lost the instinctive timidity of fluttering, insecure brides who forever strove to please spoiled bridegrooms. She had come to know a man of true power and dignity, and now a pampered boy could not satisfy her.

Pleasing thoughts, if one cared to indulge in ridiculous self- congratulation. But he had done his job too well: she did not truly need his support any more than she needed Raoul's. She had asked to go to a hotel rather than return with him to the Opera.

He led her to a nearby hotel, not pausing to read its name. Inside, he wakened the dozing concierge, who started to give him a nasty look and go back to sleep, but thought better of it. A man and a woman with no luggage reserving a single room... clearly there could be only one purpose, and he might have refused them, but for the veiled menace of Erik standing aloof and threatening, his face hidden in shadow.

There were no bellboys at that hour, so Erik took Christine's arm and gently escorted her up the stairs. He opened her room and ushered her in. She turned from him to survey the room, her eyes suddenly hollow with fatigue.

Erik lingered in the door, not wanting to leave her. She yawned, ladylike, behind her palm, apparently quite relaxed. Coming to an arbitrary decision, he closed the door with himself inside the room rather than outside in the passageway.

She did not appear to notice the significance of that gesture. Tossing away her cloak, she let down her hair, which cascaded into the familiar mass of loose ringlets which he loved. She took his presence in the room for granted, and he seated himself as casually as possible in an armchair near the door.

Sighing, she locked her hands behind her neck and worked her shoulders. He listened with faintly wistful appreciation to the soft sounds of her muscles and joints easing. He folded his hands beneath his cloak, wishing that he could touch her and smooth away her tension. His hands, which had caused so much pain and death, could also have caused pleasure and soothing, had they been given the chance. Not that it was likely that would ever happen.

She continued oblivious of his presence, turning back the bedclothes. She had, of course, brought no nightgown. He wondered, not quite idly, if she would sleep in her dress or her chemise. Certainly if it were the latter, she would require him to leave. The time had come to make his presence known, in case she had simply wandered away in thought and forgotten him.

He stirred more forcefully than necessary, making the chair creak beneath him. The sound drew a glance from her.

Christine sighed softly. As he'd guessed, she had forgotten that he sat watching her, and her next move would no doubt have been to remove her dress. He had known it, and quietly called her attention back to him. Christine wondered how she would have felt if she had not noticed his presence until after she had removed the dress.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and bent over, her fingers deftly unlacing her high-topped shoes. This finished, she sighed deeply and raised her head, involuntarily meeting his eyes. He sat quite still, watching her silently, making no move to leave or turn away. Should she ask him to go? It was an awkward moment. She didn't want him to leave, his presence comforted her. Also, if he had wanted to go, he would have gone already.

Her argument with Raoul had led her to act foolishly. The only sensible thing she had done all evening was to accept Erik's second offer of an escort. And now, he sat watching her as she readied herself for bed, his expression carefully composed to indifference, but betrayed by the intensity of his eyes as he followed her every motion.

It was not that Christine didn't realize he wanted her. She had known ever since the beginning that he needed her desperately. In the earliest days she had been infatuated with him, captivated by his voice. However, her dawning affection had suffered a severe setback when she beheld the horror of his face. And then she had met Raoul again, and fallen in love with him.

The terror of Erik's unpredictable violence, the fear that he would injure Raoul... these stresses had prevented her from coming to see the man behind the monster as he had hoped she would do. Then his unpredictable violence had turned her still further from him, and after their final climactic encounter she had gone away with Raoul and married him within the week. She had never truly allowed herself to consider the idea of loving Erik, marrying him. Why not? She bit her lip, caught by sudden regret.

He loved her, and had been there to protect her when her own foolishness led her into danger. Perhaps Raoul was right; Erik still stalked her. But he had not interfered in her life since that last, fateful evening when she left him. Not until now, when she needed him again.

Christine looked at him sadly. He was utterly alone, and had nothing better to do than to watch another man's wife from afar. In spite of his careful attention to decorum, he did not really value her marriage to Raoul. If he ever decided to go back on his word and take her away with him, her wedding ring would not deter him in the slightest. Even sitting still he projected an aura of silent power, a seductive glimpse into darkness. Yet that darkness did not fulfill him. All his power went for nothing.

For the first time in many months she remembered the night when she had kissed him, the long instants of darkly brilliant sensation. His chill flesh had come to life under her touch, his mouth heating to a fever pitch beneath hers instantly, a passion stirring between them which was like nothing she had experienced before or since.

Christine had no doubt that if she were to invite him into her bed, the fleeting, tantalizing promise of ecstasy they had shared during their single kiss would be realized in the most exquisite form imaginable. She lowered her face, hiding a confused blush. These thoughts were intense and unexpected. Her emotions for him had grown from weary pity to sudden, taut confusion in seconds, with the memory of that single embrace.

She had repressed the memory deeply, refusing to let it return to haunt her. What an innocent child she had been... until that single moment in time, when his touch had wakened a dark force in her, a mirror image of him: a silent, tightly leashed creature of sensuality, waiting for a moment of release which never came. She had hoped that craving would be appeased by her marriage to Raoul. However, even their most intimate joinings had been pale, weak by comparison to the kiss she had shared with Erik. She had refused to admit it, refused to see.

A carefully wrought, fragile edifice was crumbling to the ground, taking her with it. Her cool, self-reliant attitude evaporated instantly. The foundations of her life and her marriage, shaken first by her arguments with Raoul and then by the strength of memory and the presence of Erik here in her room-- they were giving way, as all childish dreams must do, eventually.

She became aware that she was clutching herself and shivering as though the room were intensely cold. Erik regarded her with alarm, standing now, prepared to move in one direction or another: either to come to her side and offer comfort or to leave her in peace, free of his presence and whatever he had roused in her.

"Christine," he murmured her name softly, a reverent, melodic intonation. "What's the matter?"

She shook her head, holding back tears. "It's been a long day," she managed to whisper. "Too many things have happened."

"My darling," his lovely voice caressed the words, and he moved further into the room, daring to stand at her side. "Don't be frightened. I'm here." He was not quite brave enough to touch her.

"That's what I'm most afraid of," her lips formed the words, hidden behind her untamed waterfall of curling hair, where he could not see them.

He held his hands out to her, inviting her to come to him for comfort-- or else merely expressing his sympathy. Like all his gestures, this one was filled with interwoven meaning, and the emotions it expressed were many so that if one were rejected, perhaps another might not be.

She was aware of every nuance of his motion, as she had always been intensely aware of his thoughts and actions when he was near her. He was a compelling presence, projecting a tremendous aura of strength. Unmistakable, the sense of his arms opening, the silent offer for her to come to him, to cry on his shoulder. It need be no more than that, he would not ask for more.

Her hands clutched one another on her breast, and she felt how cold her skin had grown. She was falling apart... she could slip into his arms, as she had done only once before. She could abandon her cares childishly to his comfort, and trust in his honor. He would not let her fall, he would not let her slide into the dark fires of his heart. He would be like a father, reassuring his child. Yes.

No. Erik would be a lover, caressing his longstanding mistress, and she a wanton, filling the arms of a man who was not her husband, waiting for him to sweep her up and usher her to the forbidden heights of incandescent passion that only he could inspire in her.

She shook her head fiercely, dispelling the image of herself turning his restrained, fatherly embrace into something else. He would not let her fall. She had to believe that, for she needed to be held, she needed the support of his strong arms and his patient understanding. Just this once, she promised herself.

Trembling, she stood and took one shaking step and then another toward him, her hands still clasped on her breast. She had never before accepted any of his tacit offers to touch her. What would this mean in the silent, careful dance of denial they had shared for so long, in which no concessions had been asked, and none given?

In her exhausted, vulnerable state, she did not care enough to analyze the implications of her action. Her fists clenched tightly against her chest, her uplifted arms a fragile barrier maintaining the distance between them, she stepped into his arms and let them close around her.

She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, a ragged sob escaping her. Soon she wept freely, a blissful release of mental tension, clearing away her distress and the harnessed fear left from the near escape she had endured at the hands of the ragged mob of men.

He felt the tightness in her, and did not hold her as closely as he wanted. She was timid as a wild creature which had come trembling to the huntsman's snare, knowing she had been deliberately lured there by the sweetest of enticements, yet unable to resist, disregarding the risk of the steel trap which lay beneath the seemingly innocent surface of their embrace.

No, she did not release herself freely to him. Her raised arms protected her from true closeness against him, and he felt her tight fists lying tensely against his chest. She was so cold... he circled her protectively with his cloak. The events of the evening had almost been too much for her newfound independence. The arguments with Raoul, the terror she had endured at the hands of the ruffians, the distress of seeing him kill...

He began to sing to her softly, a lullaby. He did not let his hands touch the soft skin of her back where her dress left it bare. She needed him to play the father this night, and he would gladly do so, no matter what his own emotions were.

At last she slept, still leaning against him. He had felt the tension leaving her slowly as she cried herself out. He'd expected her to pull away after the storm of weeping ceased, but Christine no longer possessed the strength of will to do so. His melody had stolen her resolve, kept her in his arms, until finally it relaxed her into sleep. Her weight settled against him, and he was forced to hold her more firmly, so that she did not fall.

At last he lifted her and laid her in the center of the bed, smoothing her skirts and drawing the sheet and coverlet over her body. He gently drew her hands from her breast and laid them at her sides, applying a light pressure on her wrists until her still- tense muscles obeyed him. Her eyes flickered open sleepily. "Don't go," she murmured. Her hand twined into his with surprising determination.

He nodded acquiescence, struggling to hide his surprise at the fact that she had touched him. Sleepy as she was, her reserve had slipped, she probably didn't realize what she had done. Gently he tried to free his hand, fearing that she would waken more fully, and resent the touch. He did not want to upset her.

"No," she frowned, hurt. "Stay."

He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, and her eyes closed again. She did not release his hand. He remained beside her, feeling her warm, soft palm within his own. Even in sleep, her fingers did not loosen.

Weariness slid over Erik at last, weighing him down until he could resist no longer. His eyes closed, and as he slept he sank down at her side, his fingers still meshed with hers, his head resting on her shoulder.

Christine woke as rays of morning crept over the windowsill, casting brightness into her face. Without opening her eyes to face the morning, she shifted her face away, sighing. She felt the comforting warm presence beside her, the weight on her shoulder.

She lay for a long moment, languidly evaluating the feel of the morning, as was her custom. She felt as though she were swathed in layers and layers of clothing...

The memory of the previous night returned to her, and she realized she still wore her dress. Her heart gave a sudden thud and stopped dead in her chest. That was not Raoul who lay peacefully at her side, gently clasping her hand... it could only be Erik!

Her eyes flew open, regardless of the sun. The painful brightness clawed at her mind, bringing tears and making her blink to clear them. She turned her head away from the brilliant sunshine. Erik indeed lay beside her, on top of the counterpane, still fully clothed in his dress suit and covered by his cloak. He even wore his black boots. The brilliant white mask covered the side of his face which lay nearest her, his eyes were closed, and his breathing rose and fell steadily in sleep. His hand lay in hers quite innocently.

She lifted herself slightly to look at him. The expression of peace on the unmasked half of his face was transcendent, an innocent blissful joy which brought true tears into her eyes. She remembered faintly how she had gone to sleep standing in his arms, and surely she remembered that when he placed her on the bed, she had taken his hand and asked him not to go... he must have fallen asleep sitting at her side.

She felt him shift slightly. His reflexes were those of a cat, and her slight motions, her increased tension, were waking him. She lay back quickly, let her eyes fall shut, and held still. She felt him come awake, his hand growing stiff in hers. His breathing grew fast, and she could sense his dismay.

If she had awakened first! Erik swore at himself furiously. If she had woken, and found you lying at her side--

With a single graceful motion that originated from every part of him and somehow lifted him instantly from the bed without unduly shaking the mattress, a deft levitation which would not have wakened her from sleep, he was gone from her side and her hand lay empty.

She heard him utter an involuntary, whispered oath. There was a sound of his hands smoothing the cloth of his cloak, and the almost imperceptible creak of the chair by the door as he settled himself into it.

She felt inexplicably irritated, and without thinking she gave a soft whimper, rolling toward the empty space where he had been, her empty hand groping softly for something which was no longer there. "Erik?" she heard herself murmur.

I must have lost my mind, she thought fleetingly. What am I thinking? He should never have known I knew he was there...

"Christine," he was at her bedside instantly. She let her lashes flutter open.

"Erik," she sighed, flinching away from the bright sunlight. "I had such a dream."

His sigh of relief was quite obvious, she thought with no litle amusement. He closed the curtains efficiently, sparing her the sun's brightness.

She pushed the bedclothes away, making a face at her wrinkled dress. "You sang me to sleep," she murmured softly.

She had been right in thinking she could trust him. His lapse was an innocent one... more innocent than hers, by far. And now she lied to him in a very real way. It would have to stop, she knew. She would give him the truth.

"Why did you go?" she frowned slightly. "You were here, earlier, but when I opened my eyes you'd gone." She touched the mattress at her side, looking up at him with a shamefully calculated degree of childish innocence.

"You've been dreaming," he told her gently.

"No," she shook her head. "It's all right. I asked you to sit by me. You fell asleep."

He looked at her for a long time, then his eyes could no longer meet hers. He turned from her and stepped away, touching his fingertips to a painting on the opposite wall. "Yes," he admitted. "I didn't want to upset you when you wakened."

"It's fine," she assured him, touched by his shyness. "You're only human, after all. No harm was done."

He accepted her words, moving quietly to stand at her bedside once more. He seemed to be fighting some inner battle. At last, his face carefully calm, he sat beside her again. He wanted to touch her once more. It took no effort to guess that, it was clear in the way his eyes were fastened to her hand, the way his long, expressive fingers lay twined together, tightly restrained, in his lap.

She wouldn't think about it. That was the trick to relating to him. Do what comes naturally. Just don't let yourself think... She extended her open hand, and he simply took it in his.

His fingers were reassuringly warm, almost unbearably normal, and he held her hand loosely, as easily as if he had done so every morning of her life. She yawned lightly, rubbing sleep from her eyes with her free hand, a motion designed to disguise her feelings. What chain of events had been set in motion when she entered his arms, what inevitable changes would result from this casual contact? He had slept at her side last night. Would he ever be content to sleep alone again?

Not that he had been content to begin with, she reminded herself prosaically. She rolled onto her stomach, almost touching him, the motion unobtrusively taking her hand from his. She felt delightfully indolent, the only flaw in her comfort a painful stiffness in her neck. She shifted her shoulders, trying to ease the ache.

Only slightly heavier than air, she felt his hands touching her braided hair, untying the ribbon and unravelling the three twined strands, gently spreading the hair, fluffing it, and carefully smoothing it to one side.

Then there was the near-electric shock of his fingers settling onto the nape of her neck, stroking her lightly. The boldness of his action dispelled her odd calm, and the leashed sensuality in her spirit jerked frantically against its tight chain. His fingers were unexpectedly skillful, softly massaging her shoulders and neck, caressing away the pain of last night's rough treatment.

She buried her face in the pillow, her breath coming with difficulty. She could do nothing but abandon herself to his gentle massage. She lay there submissively, feeling her entire body fanned to flames of helpless desire. Secretly she let the pounding pulse of sensations possess her, her unseen lips releasing silent pleading words into the pillow, as though in the midst of lovemaking. "Don't stop... don't ever stop..."

He slid his palms gently down her back, easing the tight muscles. He had often watched the skilled harem masseurs in Persia, and knew how they had used their hands to relax the tired muscles of royalty. To be done properly, the massage required hot oils and the absence of restrictive clothing, but he did not presume to loosen her dress. His cold white hands, which had done more than their share of violence-- they erased the tension and pain from her now, providing pleasure as exquisitely as they had dealt death. He felt the racing throb of her pulse coming quick throughout her flesh, but she still did not speak or resist him.

Unable to stop himself, he trailed his fingers around her soft throat till his fingertips rested on her collarbone, and he touched his lips to the nape of her neck. She shivered, her pulse continuing to quicken, her fists clutching the pillow tightly. Softly he breathed against her bare flesh, murmuring a low, resonant note, watching the fine down on her skin rise. He wanted her so badly...

A loud pounding issued from the door, and he lifted his hands, his relaxed, thoughtlessly sensual posture growing wire-tense, malevolence replacing ease. A shout issued from the hall.

Raoul.

The Vicomte loudly demanded entrance. Raoul could not be certain that Erik had stayed the long night with his wife, he could only guess at what he had just interrupted between the two of them, but the cold suspicion in his voice gave Erik to know that the boy suspected the worst. Erik sighed. He must spare Christine as much as possible of the inevitable unpleasantness of this upcoming confrontation.

Christine raised her head, her eyes startled. She flung herself from the bed, smoothing her dress and her hair, very much the guilty noble wife caught in the midst of a dalliance. Erik caught her glance, his eyes questioning. She jerked her head at the window frantically.

Erik left the room via the window and lingered on the low balcony as Christine opened the door. Raoul stamped into the room impatiently. "This is really too much, Christine!" he remarked irritably. "We're returning home, at once."

"I don't think so," Christine contradicted him. "I need some time alone, Raoul. To think."

"There's nothing whatsoever to think about," Raoul grumbled. "Particularly in this second-rate hotel. Don't think I don't know that he came to your room with you, Christine!" Raoul's voice cracked with anger. "And that he didn't leave! Come out, Monsieur!" the room resounded with the sounds of Raoul's sudden search.

Christine stopped him with an icy word. "He left through the window, Raoul," she spoke coldly. "Do you think he likes to have his movements be known and discussed by the entire population of Paris? He left by the balcony."

Raoul stopped kicking the furniture about. "Be that as it may," he blustered, "There is still the matter of our disagreement, and also the fact that you left with him. You're my wife. He's a madman, Christine. A murderer!"

"I refuse to continue this discussion until you are willing to be reasonable," Christine sighed. "I think you'd better leave."

"You are coming with me to England, and that's final!" Raoul put his foot down. "There will be no discussion of that, at least! You are my wife, you will go with me wherever I wish!"

"Go home, Raoul," She spoke wearily. "I promise you, I'll return home in a week, and we'll talk it over then."

Raoul hesitated, probably evaluating her expression. Erik could imagine her eyes, implacable, glowing with a truly beautiful anger. Her lovely spine straight, her chin high, she would stare Raoul down with the sheer force of her determination. He felt a surge of adoration for her growing in his heart.

"You stay away from that madman!" the Vicomte ordered her. "I suppose I will let you remain here, if you insist, for a week. No longer! I will come to get you then, and we will begin our journey. Or you return home when you've come to your senses, and I pray that will be soon!"

The door closed, and Erik heard the scrape of Christine drawing a bolt.

He let himself back through the open window, watching her with interest as she finished securing the door. Raoul wanted her to leave Paris, and she had refused?

She stood leaning her forehead against the door, her hair cascading down her back. Erik swore silently at the fate which always seemed to intervene at the wrong moment, which inevitably denied him the chance to escape from his utter solitude. If only Raoul hadn't found them!

Christine turned back to him, her face drawn and sad. She shook her head and released a long sigh. The room was quite warm, and a dew of perspiration stood out on her brow. She wiped it away idly. The lovely moment had been broken, and her nerves jangled mercilessly with unfulfilled passion, guilt, and the discord of fighting with Raoul. Another hour, and who knew what sight Raoul might have found awaiting him? Christine did not know what the next step might have been or how long it might have taken for him to gain the courage to attempt it, but she knew the inevitable conclusion of what had begun when she allowed Erik to touch her.

She had never let herself dream that Erik's touch might affect her that way. His hands were powerfully sensual, as seductive as his voice. He might well have done anything he liked with her, anything at all. Only his odd, sad innocence and his honor had preserved her virtue.

"Where did you learn to do that?" she asked him, suddenly aware that several minutes had passed as she just stood there, silently facing him.

He frowned slightly, not understanding her question for a moment. Then he understood. "Persia," he answered shortly. "The harem eunuchs which tended the khanum, my patroness, were trained in such arts, and I was required to be present many times while they exercised their skills." He trailed away, remembering those times with pain. The khanum had enjoyed inflicting torment, and often had contrived to display more flesh than he could endure to see without severe threat to his composure.

Christine pictured him standing dark and aloof, untouched and alone in an eastern harem, surrounded by pulsating waves of desirable female flesh, all of it sanctioned from his touch on pain of death. Even the shameless concubines who existed only to pleasure the cruel men who were their masters would have screamed if he came too near, would have shrunk from him with revulsion at the spectre of what lay beneath the mask... she could hardly picture her proud, aloof Phantom waiting on the whims of some pampered queen. She had known he once served in the court of the shah, but he had never before given her the slightest detail of his life there.

"Oh," she murmured, at a loss.

He forced himself to return to the present, and watched her closely. Wouldn't she mention the boy? What did she expect him to do? What did she plan to do herself?

Christine did not know herself. Her strongest desire was to return to him, to let him touch her again. But that was wrong, she must not torment him so. She mustn't betray Raoul!

Why not? The quiet, insiduous voice of her desire spoke to her as it had done the previous evening, more insistent this time. Why not, indeed?

Erik broke the silence which stretched between them, hanging his cloak on the edge of a mirror. "I gather the Vicomte wishes to leave Paris."

"Yes," she replied, irritated by the very thought. "He wants to live in England, where it rains every day and all the time the air is filled with fog."

Erik shrugged, impassive. "Then you don't want to live in England."

"No," she paced the floor, thoughtfully. "I don't. My friends are here in Paris."

Her friends, plural. Her friend, singular... he opened his hands. "Then persuade him to stay in Paris."

"He's convinced he wants to move away. He made all the arrangements already." she flounced onto the bed, her temper showing. "Without even speaking to me, except to tell me that all was in readiness, and that I had to come with him!"

Erik crossed the floor to stand before her. His eyes were grave. "Then you will have to make a choice." He wondered if he would be welcome to sit beside her again. He did so, and she did not get up. She flung herself flat on her back, her face still thoughtful. "I don't choose anything," she said flatly. "It's not my place."

"You have your own free will," he corrected her. "You may make any decision you like." Even to come with him to the Opera, though he did not say it. It was not his place to speak those words.

"The law forbids it," she replied, her tone still flat. "As his wife, I am a chattel. A possession. I am no better than the slave girls in that harem in Persia." Her face betrayed her distaste for the words. "I had no idea marriage would be like this," she finished bitterly, picking up her pillow and fidgeting with it.

"That is not true," he told her soberly. "You will not be put to death if you disobey your husband..." his voice trailed away, and she was startled by the raw anguish in his eyes. "In Persia girls were slain simply if they would not obey their master's wishes," he met Christine's horrified eyes. "I knew one such girl. She was only a child. She was given to me on a cruel whim, to be my wife. The khanum knew I would not force her, and she also knew the child feared me too much to come to my bed willingly." He stood, putting on his cloak in preparation to leave her. "There were spies stationed who knew what occurred in my rooms. The lies I told to protect her did not save her from the wrath of the shah, her true master."

He gazed down at Christine sternly. "You are not required to sacrifice your life in order to follow your heart," he said simply. "You have... many other options."

She stared at him, shocked. The tale had put an entirely new perspective on her situation. Surely she could leave Raoul, divorce him, or simply refuse to go with him. He would not injure her. The worst she risked was a nasty scene and the disapproval of genteel society.

Erik had his hand on the door, preparing to leave her. She picked up her cloak, tossing it around her shoulders, not bothering with any other attempt to make herself publicly presentable. She would follow him now, unquestioning. This empty room held nothing for her. It could not help her make her decision. In it she would be a weak thing once more, a lonely child with no idea what she would do. However, when she was with Erik, his underlying purpose included her, gave her vitality, as though fog cleared from her mind to give her understanding and insight.

He let her accompany him through the hall and out into the street. Taking her arm lightly, he supported her courteously as any gentleman would do. They each knew that they were bound for the Opera. No other plans were made or considered.

Her room in his house lay untouched, as she had left it. Silently she let herself in, changed from the wrinkled dress into a clean one. Her closet was not musty. The dresses held a fresh scent of lavender, and she knew he had tended them carefully. Perhaps he had come in to touch them daily, had lifted them out and looked at them in sadness, remembering her.

This house was so full of memories... she had spent many weeks underground with him. For the most part they had lived a quiet, simple life. She sang for him, he would play the piano or the organ. He would compose while she sat listening. The scent of candle-wax, so hauntingly familiar... he had shelves of books hidden away, he would read silently or aloud to her, his voice transporting her to a thousand places she had never been.

There were the memories of fear, also... when his violent temper surfaced, like the time he cursed her for removing his mask... the time he had made her put on the beautiful bridal gown, when he had brought the veil and laid it on her head, his eyes glowing feverishly, his control paper-thin. She sighed, running her fingers through her hair. He had been given a woman in Persia, a slave, and it had been his right to take her forcibly if need be. He had chosen not to do so. How terrible for him, to be denied the simple pleasures of living, to be fiercely forbidden to love...

She had it in her power to release him from that hell of solitude. Even though he might well be a a madman, though he was without doubt a murderer, his hands would never touch her in anger or hate. He would never need to kill again, if only she would give herself to him... but Raoul. If only she had never seen Raoul applauding her in the audience, if only she had never made herself his wife in the eyes of the law!

Damn propriety, and damn the law, the quiet inner voice whispered to her. Do what you want.

He knocked lightly at her door, and she opened it for him. He had also changed his clothes, into a casual silk garment which made him seem elusively normal. The commanding power so subtly enhanced by the cloak and formal suit now lay veiled, like the sun behind the leaves of trees, with the occasional gleam of brilliance escaping to penetrate to her.

He offered his hand and she placed hers in it, momentarily noticing the way that response came easily now that the first of the barriers between them had broken. He led her through his room, past the ebony coffin below red velvet draperies. She shuddered, thinking that he would lie in that coffin to rest tonight. A vampiric, disturbing image, one which frightened her in spite of herself.

One word from her, only one, and he would rise from the dead, depart from his self-imposed nightly tomb, never to return...

He seated her in her familiar, comfortable chair in the music room, placing a volume of her favorite tales within reach of her hand. He had lit a fire, and the room was comfortably warm. He moved with a deliberate grace, striving to evoke the comforting memory of their first months together. He seated himself at the piano, which was littered with manuscripts of his music, and began to play. She listened with pleasure. His hands wrung such beautiful sound from the yellowing ivory keys!

It was as if she had never left him. She hummed softly with the piano, leaning back against the soft cushions of her chair. Raoul ceased to exist in her mind. Instead, she remembered. Erik would often take her driving in the crisp stillness of winter nights, he would take her to walk in the Bois or onto the roof of the Opera, where she would watch the stars for long hours, with his warm cloak comfortable around her shoulders, while he sang softly at her side. She had watched sunrises and sunsets with him, they had gone into the dark countryside and watched the snow fall, he had tolerantly accompanied her when she wished to climb down into the snow, scooping up snowballs in her gloves, shaking branches which dumped their downy burden onto her head, onto his, spoiling his hat. Together they had gazed at the reflection of the moon on frozen ponds.

Several times, she now recalled, she had even attempted to play his music on the grand piano. He had instructed her patiently, never losing his temper when she struck the wrong keys, considerately advising her on the fingering she should use in the more difficult passages. He used to bring her rich clothes, and jewels which she wore on her fingers or in her hair. He had comforted her when she had nightmares and cried out in her sleep, he had skillfully tended her when she was ill and also once when she burned herself setting a log into the fire.

Erik had been her perfect husband in all ways but one, long before Raoul had won her childish fancy. Small wonder that she had turned to him for comfort last night, even after watching him kill to defend her. He had made it his right to defend her by any means necessary. He had made it his privilege by loving her and caring for her unceasingly, by giving her the freedom to make her own decisions and be her own woman.

She watched him play the piano. He had forgotten himself, forgotten her, in the smooth motion of his hands on the keyboard, the liquid flow of notes. He played to welcome her home, the music ringing with divine perfection. His concentration was rapt, his hands elegant, every movement exquisitely graceful, very sensual. He had played that same way on the first morning she had woken in his home, the morning she stole in to remove his mask.

She raised her voice, harmonizing with the piano, moving to stand at his side. He modulated into a song, and she fell into the words, her body automatically straightening, her shoulders lifting in the proper posture for singing. She watched his fingers caressing the ivory keys, the song pouring from her throat. He touched the keys as tenderly as he had stroked her skin...

He listened to her sing. Her voice had always been delightfully pure, soaring effortlessly through both registers, a thoroughly beautiful thing, but she had never sounded so incredibly angelic as she did now. She sang for him as he had always sung for her, with every ounce of her being behind the music, her voice rich with power and meaning, piercing him to his soul. Trembling, he concluded the song, staring at her. Her shoulders rose and fell with her breath, her face flushed. Her chin sank to her breast as if her strength had all flowed out of her with the melody.

He caught her as she fell limply against him, his own arms weak, hardly able to support her. She had just given herself to him in song, he thought, as he gently lowered her to the couch. Every sweet, forbidden part of her body thrown into the music, all her soul vibrating in tune with his hands on the piano. No performance ever more perfect... would she die here in his arms, her soul given to him? Her breath came shallowly, her beautiful eyes closed. The lovely outpouring finished, she had grown tense, her heart beating visibly beneath her flesh. She lay quite still, pliant and fragile in his arms.

He wondered why she chose to make herself so vulnerable to him. He felt his hands caressing her, flowing over her like water, and her sighing breath came in rhythm with the gentle pressure of his palms. He let his fingers slip into the low neckline of her dress, his fingertips adoring the skin beneath the soft blue cloth. Her breath grew louder, almost a soft moan. His desire grew painful in urgency, and the room swam dizzily before his eyes.

He must stop or he would loose the dress which kept him from her warm body, he must stop or he would take her, no matter what her wishes might be.

He lifted his trembling hands from her, and dropped to the floor at her side, exhausted by the restraint demanded of him. At last she opened her deep blue eyes, looking at him. She rolled herself onto her side, with some effort, propping on her elbow to look down at him. He knew he was shaking, and he closed his eyes so she would not see the lust which burned in them, sending the racking tremors through him.

"You look like you belong there," she murmured faintly. "Like I've wakened every morning of my life to find you next to me..."

She must not speak of this, not now. He shook his head, not daring to answer her.

"I know how it will be," her voice was soft. "I can feel it..."

Will be, she said, didn't she? He didn't dare think of it, but his body had heard, the damage was done... he clenched his fists helplessly, trying to control himself. She didn't know what she was saying.

"Don't," he managed, hearing the word come in a hoarse gasp. He felt her begin to tremble.

"Erik," she murmured, her voice even softer. "I want you, Erik." Her hands caught his shoulders, and she turned him to face her. She took his hands and pressed them to her again. She slipped them beneath the loose neckline of her dress, onto her breasts, her hot, soft glorious flesh.

For a long moment, he simply held her soft breasts in his hands, feeling their delicate weight, savoring the throbbing of her pulse in the tight nipples. She moaned, her hands pressing his against her, her fingers guiding his.

Her mouth came against him softly, melting kisses onto him, her hands helping him pull away her dress and his own clothing.

He paused when she lay bare beneath him. "My Christine," he murmured. "My darling..."

He drew back, savoring the sight of her damp, perspiring skin. She was incredibly beautiful, enough to take his breath away, and his hands explored her with renewed gentleness.

She untied the silk sash of his robe, her fingers insistent.

He got up and stood over her, leaving her breathing in a soft moan, her arms imploring him to return to her. He tossed away his shoes and the robe, his hands pausing before he unclothed himself fully. He had never thought to be shy at this moment, had never felt that he would be uncomfortable showing anything other than his face... he realized with surprise that she had already torn the mask away, impatient, that she had smothered his face with her kisses.

He let his trousers fall, and stood uncertainly next to her. She rose and pulled him against her, gasping. He hardly knew what to do, now that the time had come... her lifted her and settled her on the couch, and she did not let him go, pulling him onto her.

Her hands closed around him. She guided him, her fingers urgent and gentle, and he buried himself in her hot satiny flesh, hearing her wild, pleasured cry at his size and his strength. He abandoned himself to the savage, driving rhythm which drew more helpless cries from her throat. Such unbelievable ecstasy... he had never imagined such a moment. She writhed beneath him, her skin damp with sweat. Her response grew wilder, the sounds from her throat tremulous, her hands urging him to press her harder. She moaned frantically, her body convulsing, squeezing him tightly, and he felt himself spill into her, for an eternal moment of blazing sensation, too exquisite to be endured.

At last he collapsed against her, breathless. She wept softly, her mouth hot and clinging as she kissed his shoulder, his neck, his chest.

"I love you, Christine," he whispered in her ear, his mind inexplicably turning to the dagger he had worn in his belt. He wondered for an insanely lucid moment if he should take it and kill them both, immediately, so swiftly she would not know... She was his now! He did not ever want to lose her, death would be far better... Perhaps Raoul would find them, still locked together in the fatal embrace...

"I can't leave you, Erik," she wept, holding him tightly. "I love you too much."

He answered her with a wordless melody, language failing to express his feelings. Her eyes misted. She pulled him close, caressing his strong shoulders.

"I should have never left you," she murmured, her eyes filling with tears.

"Hush," he silenced her, his hand caressing her from her shoulder to thigh, making her shiver. "You were just a child."

"The thought of... this... frightened me," she explained, earnest. "I had no idea how it could be. I knew you loved me, I knew you would never hurt me. But I couldn't return that love, I didn't know how..."

He kissed her throat gently, following the pulsing vein.

"I lied to myself. I said that you were dangerous, that you might kill me..." she stopped involuntarily, her breath coming fast. His soft voice filled her ear, his breath sending delicious thrills through her. "I'd cared for Raoul as a child, and as a child I went to him."

He kissed her, gently parting her lips. She returned the deep, smoldering pressure of his mouth, losing her train of thought for a long time before she continued. "But you made me a woman, Erik, that night when I kissed you. I could never be happy as a child again," she halted, unable to continue as he took her nipple, the gentle caress of his mouth making her gasp.

"You're beautiful," she whispered, barely able to form the words. "More beautiful than words can tell, Erik. So beautiful..." her voice trailed away in the rapture of his touch. Her hands caressed his face, unmindful of the ravaged flesh.

End.


End file.
